


The Tales of the East

by LilyCarmenBlack



Series: ENDINGS, WARDEN AND EAST SERIES [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death, Easterlings, Epic Battles, F/M, Middle Earth, Running Away, Traitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 09:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyCarmenBlack/pseuds/LilyCarmenBlack
Summary: Rhûn has always been an unknown place; a kingdom where savages ruled. From the chariot riding Wainriders to the cruel Balchoth warriors, the Easterlings were a vicious people. However when a revolution, and assassination among the Variag people cause the Lord Böri's children to flee, it will be up to the West, and three Hunters to forge new alliances in a world on the brink of war.





	The Tales of the East

 

**Disclaimer: I only own Tîgeke, Uua, Naran, Qasar, Böri and any other character what was not created by J. R. R. Tolkien or Peter Jackson. I do not make any profit form this story and simply creating it for creative purposes. Everything, other than my characters and their storyline, goes to Tolkien and Jackson.**

* * *

**Name Pronunciations (according to my own way of saying them):**

**Tîgeke — Tie - Gehk - eh**

**Uua — Ohh - ahh**

**Naran — Narh - rahn**

**Qasar — Assh - arr**

**Böri — Boar - ehh**

**Al-Zia — Alll - Zheia**

* * *

**I**

**Qasar**

'Are they dead?' Qasar asked, as the golden rings that that glinted on his fingers shone in the darkness.

Brown eyes surged the court, his lips thinning as the Wild-Lords glanced between them, their tongues slicking and sliding over their mouths as they muttered in unknown voices. The Lord grunted, drawing their attention, and with a cold expression dancing across his lined face, he rose from his throne.

'I said,' the man breathed, fingers dancing along the hilt of his sword. 'Are they dead?'

The question was met with insistent mutterings, as translators and scribes struggled to explain the meaning to their masters. It wasn't long before each Wild-Lord understood what Qasar meant, and as the cold morning light drifted through the tent in shifting winds, an elderly man rose to his feet. Dressed in purple robes, and a long gold scarf, his copper skin shone in the dark light, and as the fire breathed, shooting sparks up into the air, a golden walking stick flashed in the twilight.

'My lord,' the man breathed, being his head slightly, as he watched Qasar with wary eyes. 'Who are these people you speak of? We do not understand what you mean? How can we answer your question if we do not know who you are talking about?'

The man's voice was old, a sort of sound that Qasar would have at one time taken advice from, but as the Lord stated into the wrinkled eyes of Al-Zia, he knew that nothing the old man said, would change his question. Once known as a travelling healer, the ancient man had become something of a legend among the people of Rhún, which as he stood before Qasar, a few younger Lords gaped at him, as if not quite believing their eyes.

Qasar's eyes narrowed, his lips almost disappearing as he sat back down on the golden throne, black scarf slipping from around his face for a brief second, revealing a middle-aged man with greying hair, and a gruesome scar.

'Listen well, healer, for I will only explain this once.' Qasar snapped, split tongue curling as his hawk cawed loudly, it's golden dipped talons curling around the throne's arm. 'Out of all of the Wild-Lords, whose throne do I reside on? Whose clan, do I now rule?'

For a brief second, Al-Zia clutched at his stick, as if debating to ram the golden pole against Qasar's head. He muttered something under his breath, eyes focused on the red and black rug that lay beneath his feet. Qasar leaned forward, eyebrows raised.

'What was that, old man?' he jeered, drawing a dark look from Al-Zia. 'I didn't quite hear that?'

The other Lords looked away, as Al-Zia's back straightened, his dark eyes meeting Qasar's own.

'Lord Böri of the Variags.' Al-Zia sighed, shoulders shuddering. 'You sit on the Faithless' throne.'

Qasar grinned, his lips breaking so that they twisted around his scar.

'Exactly,' Qasar breathed, leaning back on his throne. 'So, I will ask again: Are they dead?'

A heavy silence broke over the council, Qasar's question spanning around the room.

'Yes,'

Qasar turned, head whipping around so fast that he could have been a shadow. Sitting in the darkness, swaddled in loose clothes, sat the only foreigner. Judging from his black skin, and short hair, he was from Harad, and while the tattoos that danced across his hands were Rhûnian in design, it was the golden khopesh that lay in his hands that confirmed Qasar's suspicions.

Cocking his head, the Lord stared at the Haradrim, his eyes flickering as he studied the man. He looked to be in his early thirties, his shoulders broad and stiff from hours of sword practice, and his hands callused with age. A leather bag sat on the floor beside him, filled with knives and a strange looking pipe that reminded Qasar of a worm. All in all, the stranger in the dark was odd, and while his presence should have threatened the Lord, the man's quiet nature intreated him.

'What is your name?' the Lord asked. 'I do not recognise you from any Wild Court.'

The man bowed his head, his sharp face reflecting the light for a brief second before it disappeared back into the gloom.

'I am Naran,' the man said, placing his hand across his chest in a formal greeting, 'Naran of Luri - former Guard to King Bast, ex-member of the House of Death.'

Qasar's eyebrow raised.

'Really, well, that is an accomplishment.' Qasar's voice suddenly hardened. 'But how does an assassin of the Mad-King known that the Faithless' spawns' are dead?'

There was a brief pause, and then Naran raised his reached into his bag. A bloodied hand was thrown across the room, the olive skin ashy as it rolled at Qasar's feet. A small cry left a younger Lord's lips, and heads whipped in the boy's direction faces judgmental and cruel as they stared at the blue-eyed man. Qasar, unaffected by the hand, landed forward, turning it over so that he could see the palm.

A black wolf, inked into the skin, reflected back, the animal's maw bloody against the paleness of the hand. The hand, had at one time belonged to a woman, and as Qasar lifted it up to the light, he noticed the carved mark that wrapped around the thumb.

The name Tîgeke was famous amongst the Easterlings, and not just because it meant Arrow-sister; the name meant strength, a version of history that the West left unsaid. The wars between Rhûn and Rohan were bloody, especially when the woman was involved, and as the years grew, and the Rohirrim grew shrewd, a young warrior rose in the Rhûnian's ranks. She had bared her weapon, drawing it against the night, and rushed forward, cutting down her enemies with a single slice of her sword.

She had raised her people to victory, slicing off the head of Eorl the Young before being burned alive by the men who had captured her. To the Easterlings, Tîgeke was a hero; to the Rohirrim, she was a monster. Now, only a few hundred years later, another Tîgeke had been born, and as Qasar traced the name with his finger, a cruel smirk on his lips, he couldn't help but laugh.

Böri's children were dead, cut down by a Harad assassin. It was perfect.

'Well, done, Haradrim,' he said, tossing the hand up into the air, allowing his hawk to catch it in her beak. 'Well, done indeed. Tell me, where on earth did you find the brats?'

Naran shrugged.

'They were escaping the city,' he said, voice cold. 'I cut them down before they could breathe.'

Qasar grinned.

'Well,' he breathed, folding his hands across his belly, 'now that mind is settled, this meeting is concluded. Gentlemen, you may leave…'

One by one, the Wild-Lords rose to their feet, leaving the tent in hushed whispered and moving sand, that it was only when Naran rose to his feet, brushing down his trousers, did Qasar move. He leaned forward, chin resting on his palm.

'Naran,' the Lord commanded. 'Come here,'

Naran paused, dark eyes watching Qasar before he picked up his things and approached the throne. Unlike the humble kings of Harad, Lord Qasar's throne was made of the golden dipped bones of the Variags enemies. A thin axe was painted above Qasar's head, a sort of crown among the layers of fabric that surround his face, and as the Haradrim knelt before the king, the Lord noticed that the assassin was grim.

'Give me your hand,' he commanded, extending his hand. 'I want to check something.'

Pausing, Naran extended his right hand, pressing it into the Lord's hand, and as Qasar lifted up the man's palm to the light, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

'Ah, what a shame,' the Lord grinned, smiling wickedly, as he looked at Naran's ring finger, 'your already married. I was wondering how I was to reward you for such a prize. I thought a wife might do, but now that I see this mark, I think not.'

He thought a moment, lips pursed.

'How many wives can your people take?' he asked suddenly. 'I heard that your king has as many as fourteen women - does he fuck all of them?'

'Only royalty or those on the council may marry more than once,' Naran replied, his voice numb of emotion. 'Simple folk like myself can only marry once - and to be perfectly honest, I would not want another wife. She's enough… And yes, he does.'

Qasar raised his eyebrow.

'That pretty is she?' he grunted.

Naran shrugged.

'She's good enough,' he replied.

The Lord's smirk thickened.

'Good in bed?'

Naran glanced up, eyes suddenly dark.

'She's good enough,' he replied again, voice hardening with each word.

The Lord leaned back, dropping Naran's hand, suddenly bored.

'Then, if it is not women, what do you want?' he asked, studying Naran.

Naran pursed his lips.

'What does any man want other than woman and sex?' he asked. 'Money.'

Lord Qasar raised his eyebrow.

'How much?'

'Three hundred gold pieces,'

Qasar frowned.

'That's a high price for one simple assassination,'

Naran shrugged, folding his arms.

'I did kill Lady Tîgeke and Lord Uua - in my country, an assassination like that would cost double the price.' Naran paused. 'I assented those two for your own gain, and in turn, I suspect to be fully rewarded.'

The sun had risen well over the tent when Naran walked out of the tent, his clothes fluttering in the stiff breeze. A bag of coins rattled in his back, his khopesh sharp against the hot sun as he walked away. Almost instantly, he was joined by a woman in loose black clothing, her face and hair hidden by a long scarf. A young bo trailed behind him, his identity too hidden, and as the three left the small incumbent, heading in the direction of a few horses they had already procured, the woman touched Naran's sleeve.

'How did it go? Did he take the bait?' she breathed, Haradrim tracing her lips.

For a brief second, her husband said nothing, his dark eyes cold against the afternoon sun, and it was only when he was standing beside his horse, hands running down the animal's toned muscles did he speak.

'Your skills did you well,' Naran breathed, turning to his wife. 'But now, we must go. It won't take Qasar long to figure out that the hand is fake,'

Grinning, Tîgeke of the Variags pressed her veiled lips up to her husband's cheek. They stayed there for a while, before she moved away, eyed dark.

'Come on,' she snapped, pulling her bother towards a horse, the hot sun falling across their bodies like molten lava. 'Its time we leave… We head west.'

* * *

**Dear Readers,**

**Now, isn't this a way to start a story? Sure its short but this is merely setting up what is to come. For those of you who can't tell, I was slightly inspired by "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George. R. Martin, in the way I started this, although I can never get the perfection that he as been able to achieve.**

**I hope you enjoy this take on Haradrim and Rhûnian (is that the right spelling) and I will write a new chapter soon. I appologise for any hard-core LOTR fans out there, if I have got any details wrong. I haven't read all the books, (I know treason) so I have no idea if I am translating the Easterlings or Haradrim's accurately. Please tell me if I'm wrong.**

**I hope this prologue has peeked your interest and I look forward to writing Chapter One. I wish you all a fantastic new year.**

**from.**

**Lily**


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